


A Taste of Your Own

by soupypictures



Category: Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, a reinterpretation of a song, i'm so sorry mitch, join me in contemplating the implications of this interpretation, larrie-free content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 08:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16806793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupypictures/pseuds/soupypictures
Summary: Medicine isn'tHarry'sconfession.





	A Taste of Your Own

**Author's Note:**

> a short little ditty for hannah. consider this also the fill for that prompt you sent in ages ago... 
> 
> i hope you all enjoy.
> 
> disclaimer: author knows that her story is fictional and she does not intend for anyone to actually believe that it is true.

Harry Styles is an instrument of torture.

Sure, he’s kind and funny and generous and witty but he’s _also_ , on top of all of that, a harrowing experience. And Mitch can’t complain about it because he’s brought at least some of it on himself. He has _relented_. He has let Harry get to him. Every encounter with him had broken down some of his formidable Midwestern defenses until he had found himself here, backed up inside a bathroom stall with this creature, this possible alien being on his knees and yanking at his own jeans as he begs for Mitch to get himself out. Instead of The Rack he has to contend with the twin stressors of a wet pink mouth and shining eyes.

 _What the fuck what the fuck_ he thinks as he buries a hand in those long curls, looking down at that extremely symmetrical face that he’s coming to understand has been every teenaged girl’s wet dream for half a decade. No, that’s not fair, he amends. His breath catches when Harry’s tongue flicks out in a kitten lick and his eyes blink closed. _Not only teenaged girls_.

**********************************************

“Teenaged girls are the taste-makers,” Harry says days later, sprawled on a couch and picking at a guitar. Mitch is also seated on the couch and half under Harry because the man hasn’t ever demonstrated a sense of personal space in Mitch’s presence. “Like, a lot of people put them down because they scream, but I never understood that. They screamed for The Beatles. Don’t you want to be The Beatles?”

Mitch doesn’t answer, gently prodding at Harry’s fingers on the fretboard, nudging them into a new shape.

“I think, probably, I’ve already done that. And this time I want to do it differently.” Harry strums the new chord. “Oooh, I like that. And then, how about—” he slides his fingers around, strums again, and Mitch hums in approval. “It’s good, right?”

It’s easy to forget sometimes with those eyes turned on him that ultimately, all Harry wants is the full approval of every single person around him. Mitch is helpless in the face of that. “Yeah, s’good.” They mess around on their shared guitar for awhile longer, record some riffs and some chord progressions on Harry’s phone. He doesn’t want to go out but Harry does. So Mitch does, ultimately, and then it happens again. 

**********************************************

This time they’re back on the couch and it’s Mitch on his knees at Harry’s feet. Harry pulls off his shirt and shimmies off his skinny jeans, from clothed to fully naked in a handful of seconds. Mitch boggles. Harry’s signature hair is an untamed mess spread against the back of the couch and Mitch feels like 100-proof alcohol is coursing through his veins as he kneels up and takes his first taste. 

_Up to your mouth, feelin’ it out, feelin’ it now ..._

His senses are overwhelmed. Between the sounds spilling from Harry’s mouth and the taste in his own, the strength of the thighs under his hands, he’s oxygen-deprived and addled and those chords they were picking out before shuffle around in his brain and set themselves next to the words now flooding through his conscious mind.

He’s not sure he’ll ever recover from this.

**********************************************

Sarah knows.

_The boys and the girls are in, I mess around with them, and I’m okay with it._

Mitch stares as Harry rocks his hips up toward the mic stand, the words falling from his mouth narcissistic to the _n_ th degree. He’s ready to fuck the creature in the song, the driving beat rushing them all—Harry, Mitch, the band, the arena full of screaming fans—to that hasty conclusion. Those nameless faces filling in _tasted_ in the empty space between lyrics night after night, they think they’re witness to Harry’s story and his carefully-wrought confession.

_I’m comin’ down I figured out I kinda like it._

Sarah knows about him and Harry fucking around, not about the song. Maybe she’s put it together by now but it doesn’t really matter, watching Harry give himself over fully to the words Mitch had written on that couch. He’d tapped the lyrics into Harry’s phone still high from their second tryst and his first taste. His words about how Harry wore him down, how Harry flipped a switch in him, how Harry sped up his heart and made him hard and pushed him over the proverbial ledge. How anyone could think that the temptation that Harry sang about every night could be anyone other than Harry himself? Who else had that kind of power? What siren, what coquettish minx existed _in addition to_ this black-clad silky selkie shimmying his way across the stage this night, last night, and tomorrow?

_And when I sleep I’m gonna dream of how you ..._

The poetic license, Harry’s tongue flicking out to wet his lips as the arena fills in the wrong phrase, over and over, what he’d actually had and not what had sat there as a provocation on his person as Harry had leveled that slow-blink up at him and slithered down off the couch, naked still but for the ink needled into his skin. Mitch hasn’t recovered, not fully, for during these few minutes when Harry closes his eyes and embodies Mitch’s own confession in front of thousands of strangers he’s back on the couch.

The last chord rings out and he reaches for his wine glass, sloshing a bit over the sides as Harry catches his gaze and winks.

_La la la la la._

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at yessoupy.


End file.
